Cold Comfort
by vivere
Summary: I died that night. At least that’s what they tell me when I wake up for the first time. Ryancentric. Ch. 2 up.
1. Was it you?

Usual disclaimers apply. Season one. AU or not AU, that's the question – I haven't really decided yet. Let me know what you think.

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Cold Comfort  
by vivere

I died that night.

At least that's what they tell me when I wake up for the first time. But I'm so tired, I can't even make out the faces in front of me. Just shapes drifting like clouds in and out of my field of vision. As my eyes begin to close on their own, I feel a hand latch on to mine. A female voice accompanies the warmth that seeps into my bones. Her relieved whisper reaches my ears before I drift off completely, "You're back."

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Things are still lacking definition when I wake up the next time. The shapes have been replaced by unfamiliar faces that like to ask questions which I'm in no position to answer. I try hard to concentrate, but find that I just can't. Words escape my grasp and thoughts play hide and seek.

Without warning, a stab of pain slices through my skull and my world turns black, yet again.

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When I reach consciousness the third time, a splitting headache along with my mom's sober face awaits me. She's holding my hand and smiles teary-eyed at me. I gaze at her, confused. What was she doing here, or more importantly, where were the Cohens? As I try to ask exactly that, my throat refuses to co-operate and only a croak makes it past my lips. My mom seems to notice my dilemma and gives me some ice-chips. "Here you go," she says softly with a trembling voice.

I can't shake the feeling that something's "off" and take a good look at her. One thing I instantly recognize is that she appears different – frail somehow. And my mom may be a lot of things, but frail isn't one of them.

Frail and, perhaps, already broken.

Like a doll that's been handled too roughly for too long; left behind, sitting rejected in a corner where the world has ceased to exist.

She always reminded me of empty promises.

A doll of empty promises...

She squeezes my hand and pulls me out of my reverie. The ice-chips have given way to temporary relief as I clear my throat and manage to croak out, "What happened?" My eyes water at the unexpected pain that goes with just pushing those two words out of my mouth.

She looks startled for a moment, as if she can't quite believe that I don't know. A second later her eyes are starting to fill with tears and she asks me with a cracking voice, "Don't you remember?"

I try.

And try again.

Still, my mind draws up a blank. I look at her for help. Her tears are falling freely now, burning my skin like acid for a sin not remembered.

"Mom? What happened?" I ask tentatively.

She stares straight into my eyes and tells me in a quivering voice, "You and Trey had just stolen a car when the cops caught wind of it... Trey was the one driving... he was the one who crashed the car... and he was the one who died..." A sob catches in her throat and she shakes uncontrollably. Since she is still holding my hand like a life-line, my arm trembles in synch.

I feel numb.

Trey is dead.

Trey is dead.

Trey is dead?

But...

... that couldn't be... he survived the accident... that's why he was in jail...

... and I landed with the Cohens...

OK. Keep thinking straight.

What about the Cohens? Think!

I close my eyes, my mom's sobs are wracking both her body and mine. This as well as my headache isn't helping any. I sigh and gently try to distangle myself from her but she's shaking even harder and I resign myself to be her anchor, if only for the moment.

After a few minutes of violent crying she calms down a bit and brings herself to look at me. I try to hold her gaze, but I can already feel the strong pull of sleep and I can't help but succumb to it...

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Someone is caressing my hair. I let a relieved smile slip on my face.

Kirsten.

Without opening my eyes, I sigh, "Hey, Kirsten."

"Who is Kirsten, honey?" My eyes spring open and my head whips around so fast that my world keeps spinning for a moment longer before I fix my gaze on my mom.

My reaction seems to surprise her, because she knits her brows together in confusion. She reaches for my hand and cautiously repeats her question. "Who is Kirsten, Ryan? Is she a girlfriend?"

Kirsten. My girlfriend. I can't even wrap my mind around that one.

I slowly shake my head and tell her quietly albeit incredulously, "Mom, you know Kirsten. Kirsten Cohen? You've met her; she even invited you to a party..."

She's frowning now and looking at me with worried eyes, "Maybe I should call a doctor." As she starts to reach for the call-button, I intercept her. I lay my hand over hers and tell her again, "Mom? The Cohens... they took me in after the crash... don't _you_ remember? AJ threw me out... and Trey... Trey, he's alive, in jail, but alive..."

Now I'm the one clinging to her for dear life.

But her frown only deepens. I have to make her understand somehow. But talking isn't my strong suit, never was.

I could use some of Seth's verbal communication skills right about now... That thought brings me to a stop.

Seth.

Sandy.

Kirsten.

My hands start to shake as I frantically scan my surroundings. Since there is no other available target around, I glare at my mom. "Mom, where are they? Is this supposed to be some kind of joke?"

As my irritation increases, my body develops a life of its own. I can't keep my breathing under control. My head's spinning and the world shifts out of focus.

I'm not aware when my mom calls for help nor do I feel the prick of the needle as a nurse injects me with a sedative.

My weight settles into the mattress easily enough but I'm afraid that I will drown as my leaden body sinks further and further into this heaven of supposed comfort. Panic begins to rise in my chest, grows and explodes, crushing my lungs. And suddenly, I can't breathe, can't quench my body's thirst for air.

The door bursts open and a white lab coat appears in my field of vision. Two strong hands turn my head, shake me a bit. Mr. White Coat mutters something I can't decipher. When he realizes that I don't understand, he shakes me harder and yells my name. Although my body screams in protest, I focus my attention on the flow of his words.

...n. Out. In. Out. In. Out...

OK. That I can do. I've always been good at following instructions.

And like a miracle, my heart ends its mad race against itself and a familiar feeling of cold washes over me, wraps me like a blanket. The meds are doing their job as my eyes finally slide shut to welcome me to the land of oblivion.

Reality ceases to exist.

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Dreams aren't supposed to hurt. Yet, they do. Because, in dreams, realities collide, merge and fall apart.

And I can see them, feel their existence next to mine.

Seth cracking me up. Sandy making me strong. Kirsten giving me comfort.

They laugh.

I cry.

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Where are you?

Tbc...


	2. Trying to get home before too dark

The crash is truly spectacular. And loud. A cacophony of sound and noise that shouldn't be meshed under normal circumstances. And curiously enough, it reminds me of fireworks back in Fresno. When there were only reds and whites and blues. And sometimes even laughter. I stare in awe at the explosion of colors. A glittery rainbow of glass travels through the air and shortly afterwards paints stars on the ground. Smoke ascends into the air and wraps the car into its giant fist. When it clears some, I can see that the metal of the car has been bent into a shape that it's not supposed to be able to take. It looks like a child has tried its hand at art and lost.

The street is deserted as I walk closer to inspect the car. I wonder if any of the passengers have survived this. The glass crunches under my shoes and raises the hairs on the back of my neck. It's like someone is running his fingernails across a blackboard. As the stench of burnt rubber fills my nose I try not to gag. I raise my arm to cover up my nose and try to ward off some of the smell. I breathe in through my mouth although it doesn't really help.

The driver is slumped across the steering wheel. Any thoughts of first aid flee my mind when I notice that his neck's at a strange angle. Nevertheless I reach across and gently touch his neck to see if I can find a pulse. At the merest touch his head lolls to the right and I stagger back. I take a shuddering breath. Tears spring to my eyes. The temperature around me seems to drop a few degrees. I don't know how long I'm standing there. And at this moment it doesn't matter. Or better yet, I don't care.

When I got my nerves somewhat under control, I look inside the car again. I can't really see beyond the driver, not that I want to. Something to my right catches my eye and I turn to look at it. All I can do is stare. I can't even swallow past the lump in my throat. There, dangling innocently and untouched, is the seatbelt. The seatbelt that should have saved this man's life. I silently shake my head and vow to myself that I'll never go un-buckled again. Not at this cost.

I walk around to the other side of the car. The first thing I notice is a pale hand that is sticking out of the window. It's not moving and I can feel a sense of dread settling uncomfortably in the pit of my stomach. I don't want a repetition of what has happened earlier. I steel myself, kneel down to get a good look inside and my heart almost stops when I suddenly stare into blue eyes that are my own.

_ococococococ_

I wake up with a start. Bile rises in my throat and I can't stop my body's reaction as it purges itself from the remnants of my dream. Or better, yet, nightmare. Or maybe remembrance? I don't know.

What I do know is that it's all too damn confusing. What kind of meds are they giving me anyway? They seem to mess with the rest of what's left of my sanity. Trey just can't be dead.

And yet, it feels like he is.

Fortunately, denial is something I've learned early on and I refuse to acknowledge that thought.

I wrinkle my nose as the stench of my own vomit permeates my senses. I look around and find that no one else is in the room. There's no need to call for a nurse, though, I've taken care of myself as well as my mom more times than I care to remember.

Moving into a sitting position I grasp the edges of my blanket and fold it together. I shift my legs and my feet touch the ground with a soft thud. Instantly I curl my toes – I didn't expect it to be so cold.

The trip to the bathroom is made on unsteady legs. I deposit my little package on the floor and almost trip over myself when I catch my reflection in the mirror. I wince. The right side of my face is dotted with bruises that range from the size of a dime to the size of a fist. Looks like I have gone ten rounds with Tyson and lost. Although my face is sore I haven't expected something like this.

My hands turn on the water almost of their own accord. It's shockingly yet refreshingly cold. I splash some on my face and rinse my mouth. The water drips on my gown as I stare at my reflection.

It stares right back.

I lean forward and press my forehead against the glass. How could this have happened? I know I'm not crazy. Trey's not dead. Yet, everybody tells me a different story. How lucky I am to have survived. Not to have sustained any major injuries.

Sure, my heart stopped. But they got it going again. No complications. No fuss.

Even so, I don't feel lucky. I don't feel different.

Still, this world's new to me.

And it's time to change something about it.

_ococococococ_

"The number you have dialed is not availabale."

Six times. Same number. Same answer. Logical, isn't it?

I could do without logic right about now. What the hell is this? Sandy always pestered me to remember their number in case something happened. And now a voice from outer space tells me it's not available.

I push the receiver forcefully back into the cradle. Just wasting my time here. I clench my fists and close my eyes. When will this nighmare come to an end?

My body reminds me again that it's only been 36 hours since the accident, and I have to grab the payphone to remain upright. The world does a nice spin. Sweat breaks out across my forehead.

"Sir, are you all right?"

A wave of my hand. A muttered, "Yeah." And the next thing I know, I'm heading face first to the floor.

_ococococococ_

"What were you thinking?" She lets it hang there. An ominous cloud over her head. And I'm just waiting for the clap of thunder.

I keep quiet, fiddle with my blanket and let her rant on about my "stupid escape".

Whatever happened to yesterday? Seems the doting mother has been replaced, yet again, with my own.

A hand on my face, "Honey, are you all right?" She sounds concerned but not overly sincere.

No. I'm not all right. No. I don't know what's going on. No. Trey's not dead. Just no.

I search her face and then, "Where are the Cohens, mom?" I sound resigned, and she sighs when she answers me, "I don't know who you're talking about." Same question. Same answer. Sound familiar?

I turn my head to face the window. This is useless. And it always comes down to this: a dead end.

"Ryan, talk to me."

"What's there to talk about?"

She pleads, I block.

"Don't be so thickheaded. I'm just trying to help you."

I snort, I just can't help myself.

Blessed silence. At least for a while. Chances are that she's staring daggers at the back of my head. Not that I care. At least it's something I'm used to.

The door swishes open. Probably the doc.

Footsteps. A rustle of clothes.

"Maybe you can talk some sense into him. I'm out of here." The footsteps vanish as the door closes.

"Hi, Ryan." The voice is friendly, sweet. And has been utterly missed.

Theresa.

I return my gaze from the window and stare at her. She doesn't seem different. Just as beautiful. Just as strong.

"I'm sorry about Trey." Like a slap to the face. Still, I only shrug and avert my eyes. She always could read me like a book. And I don't want her to see what's really going on inside my head.

She gently grasps my hand and sits down on the bed.

"He didn't deserve this." I whisper. In my mind I add, I didn't deserve this.

"Trey knew the risks and he shouldn't have dragged you into this." Her words are final, fierce. Her eyes are ablaze when she adds, "You could have been killed, Ryan."

"I know", I say, indifferently.

"If you know, then why did you get in the car with him?" She's angry with me and squeezes my hand harder than is necessary.

A couple of reasons spring forth immediately. First and foremost, though, I didn't want to disappoint him or myself. He was counting on me and I was counting on him. As simple as that. But try to get her to understand that, so I settle for the obvious, "He's my brother."

Her eyes cloud over for a moment, but she understands and nods her head.

"Are you all right?"

Everybody asks if I'm OK, and I say "Yeah", because I'm OK. What is not to be okay about?

Trey isn't dead.

I'm not here.

Life goes on.

It doesn't hurt.

She pulls me out of my reverie when she gives me a tight hug, and whispers "It's going to be okay. " I search for the truth in that statement but can't find it.

I want to ask her about the Cohens, but I'm afraid of her answer. It's too late when she suddenly realizes what time it is, stands up and declares that she has to get to work. She squeezes my hand again, then she's out the door.

And out of my life.

_ococococococ_

Rewind. Play. Fast Forward.

It feels as though my life has become a fucking game. The only problem is that I don't even know where it started and if I'll ever get to the finishing line.

_ococococococ_

Trey used to have this mantra when we were younger. He knew that I didn't like it much, that's probably the reason why he always chose to repeat it to me whenever he got the chance. And the way he said it was something else to see, because he would jump around like a freaking maniac and scare the hell out of me. Back then the words didn't frighten me as much as Trey himself did, but I guess they didn't really register, either.

And the mantra, it goes like this:

_Don't let it break  
__Don't let it start  
__Don't let them in  
__Don't go too far  
__And cover your track  
__Else they'll snap your neck  
__Else they'll break your back  
__And you'll wind up dead_

I reckon I don't like it much now, either, but somehow the words ring true.

Tbc…

_ococococococ_

AN: Part of the lyrics is courtesy of Britt Daniel (Spoon). No infringement is intended. I changed them to match the mood of the story. Here are the original ones:

_Don't let it break  
__Don't let it start  
__Don't let em in  
__Don't go too far  
__And cover your tracks  
__Cover the path to the heart  
__Don't let the footholds start  
__And don't let no one in  
__Cause they never got you and you never got them_


End file.
